Quality Snacks

Woman of Peace

Woman of Peace Bythetimesheturnedseventeen,MegShannonhadcometobelieve that the world pretty much sucked, but with the help of friends and familyyoucouldbuildalittletarp-coveredshackinwhichyoucould ride out the shit storms. ShewasraisedinJustice,asouthwestsuburbof Chicago,where 294 and I-55 tangled and separated, where the late news was filled with shootings and fires and indicted politicians, where nearby forest preserves made a natural setting for drinking, drug use, freaky spiritual insights, heavy petting, and, eventually, protected andunprotectedsex.AtQueenof PeaceHighSchool,SisterTherese, Meg’sChristianLifestylesteacher,hungafeltbannerwiththeheading “A Woman of Peace. . . ,” under which were attributes: “feels and forgives,” “cares and comforts,” “respects herself and others.” Meg bought into these virtues wholeheartedly, even sentimentally, though this didn’t stop her from stealing beer money from her dad or getting into screaming matches with her mom or telling off someone at school who crossed her. quality snacks / 120 She ran with a crew of girls who called themselves the BBs, which stood for “best buds,” “beautiful babes,” and “ball busters.” They smoked, swore, drank, played powder-puff football, coached each other through abortions, and when they felt like it, dolled themselves up like starlets for a night of house parties, showing their men the meaning of both dancing and fucking. Kim was their leader. She was a city kid, clever and fun and also a bossy motormouthwhosometimesmadeMegfeellikedirt .Jennywasthesoulful one, though not the sharpest knife in the drawer. With a huge chin thatmadeherlooklikeaMuppet,Pattywasthefriendliest,someone you could turn to when Kim was being a bitch or wanted to cut you from the group, and Colleen was the smartest and went to college. Pure Irish on both sides, Meg herself had orange-red hair and freckles, and she cultivated an earthy, milkmaid vibe—grounded or rowdy, as the BBs needed. She had fantasized about being a farmer’s wife on the Emerald Isle, living on a bluff overlooking the sea, surrounded by loving, happy children in front of a roaring fireplace. Instead, at age twenty-one she married Mark, her high school sweetheart from St. Laurence, their “brother school” across the street, honeymooned on a Caribbean cruise because he saw a discount flight advertised on a billboard on 294, and hit the marital ground running, waitressing five days a week at Pepe’s Mexican restaurant on Ninety-Fifth Street. Her children came fast and furious—at one point she had four car seats—and these kids had absolutely no sense. They gnawed on stuffed animals, crushed Froot Loops into the carpet, broke lamps and bones, spread the Sun-Times from room to room, climbed on her body like it was a piece of rec-room furniture, reinforced the dog’sfoulhabits,stupefiedthemselveswithTVandvideogamesand computers, left pieces of clothing and plates of half-eaten food in unexpected places, and generally made everything damp and sticky Woman of Peace / 121 and off-kilter. She threatened to shoot them, put them down the garbage disposal, hang them from a crossbeam in the garage, or drag them behind the minivan. She didn’t believe in spanking, but to make a point she would come up behind Aileen or Joe or Molly or Patrick and flick a hard finger behind the ear. As a result, the kids made Bs in school, were on time to sports events, and mostly did the choressheassignedwithoutlippingbackthatoften—behaviorthat gratifyingly coincided with her main child-rearing goals. Mark became a mechanical engineer and made decent money, but she waitressed off and on, depending. Their sex was fun and frequent though she had to draw the line on his perverted desires: blow jobs in T.G.I. Friday’s parking lots were OK, but anal, no matter the venue, was not. Her favorite days were Sundays during football season, when she’d get Mark and the kids into good clothes, put on one of her classier dresses, and go to Mass with the fam. The service was boring but relaxing, unless she wanted something from God and then she would pray her ass off the whole time. At home, she would change into her Jim McMahon jersey and order pizza, and thewholefamilywouldhitthelivingroomtowatchtheBearsgame. She’d curl up with Mark on the stained, overstuffed leather couch (part of a living room set that had put them in a credit hole for years), yell at the refs or at the play calling of the Bears’ hapless postDitka coaches, and get drunk. And she imagined that Mark stayed by her because he meant it, not just because the Bears were...